


That's just life

by Karolina98



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: But they're doing their best, Canon? What Canon?, F/F, F/M, Fluffy, Kinda, M/M, Multi, Multiverse, no one knows anything
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-02-09 20:08:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18645205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karolina98/pseuds/Karolina98
Summary: “Alternate universes happen when choices are being made. There’s probably a universe out there where you did marry Roslin Frey and have a bastard kid. There’s probably not a universe where you joined the Night’s Watch, because that was something that never even occurred to you





	1. Robb's ghost

**Author's Note:**

> So.. This is my way of circumventing the timeline. Of getting all my headcanons in one story. It will have tons of pairings. tons of characters. I will add as I go along.  
> 'My story contradicts itself? Off course it does!'

 

Robb Stark wakes up, sixteen years old, with many disturbing images in his mind and panic in his heart. With one hand he grabs his throat, his neck, and with the other he grabs Grey Wind’s thick fur. Grey Wind, sensing his distress, whines and licks him. Like with most nightmares, the panic settles quickly, and Robb shakes his head, rather like Grey Wind would, to clear the strange images and feelings. He’s too old to be scared of dreams.

“Morning.” He greets his wolf and ruffles Grey Wind’s ears. Silly, to be so affected by images he can’t even properly remember anymore. Then he turns, getting out of bed and sees the young woman sitting at the foot of his bed. She’s several years older than him and wears a strange style of dress, along with a rather ill-made, ugly, grey coat. She smiles.

“Morning.” She greets, her accent unknown to Robb. She seems somewhat ghost-like.

“Grey Wind?” Robb queries, and while the wolf perks up his ears, he doesn’t react any further. Robb motions vaguely towards the woman. Grey Wind follows the motion and the woman smiles widely and opens her arms in the way people who like dogs do when they see puppies. Grey Wind looks back at him slightly confused. The woman looks disappointed.

“Are you real?” Robb asks, voice low. Apparently it’s less insane to speak to ghosts in a whisper, than at a normal tone of voice.

“Off course I’m real.” The woman says, somewhat exasperated. Robb studies her face, trying to place it. Suddenly its like he’s being pulled back into the nightmare. He sees her astride a horse, half buried under Grey Wind, bruised and beaten, laughing.. he blinks and shakes his head again. Frowning he takes the dagger from the table next to the bed and slowly extends it towards the woman. He’d seen flashes of her hugging Grey Wind, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember her name. He goes to gently poke her wrist and she looks at first him and then the dagger with amused curiosity. There is no resistance when dagger meets wrist. None at all. The blade is partially visible through flesh.

“You just said you were real.” Robb accuses. The woman rolls her eyes.

“I _am_ real. I’m just in your head.” She focuses her gaze back downwards and extends her hand to his. He feels nothing. No pressure, no temperature, no shivers down his spine.

“Why?” Robb’s pretty sure he’s losing his mind. Or still asleep.

“How should I know?” She answers his question with one of her own. “I suppose you want to speak to me.”

“I don’t.” Robb disagrees. “Go away.” If wolves can look at you as if you’ve lost your mind, they would probably look like Grey Wind does now. The woman shrugs, seeming unimpressed.

“Sure.” She agrees and disappears.

 

When he comes back to his room, Grey Wind at his hip, Robb falls face down on his furs and groans. It has been the strangest day. The household was in a state of excitement, due to King Robert’s upcoming visit, but today it seemed different. Or at least, his siblings and no least himself, seemed different. At breakfast mother had told them that the wolves had to stay outside. It was a long standing conflict in which some battles were won and some were lost. However this morning Sansa, who was certainly the most obedient and obliging of his siblings, had spoken.

“No. Lady stays by me.” The words had been spoken in a soft, even tone of voice, but Robb had felt the icy bite of Northwestern ice-wind in them. Everyone at the head table had looked at Sansa, with varying expression of surprise. Sansa had met their gazes, calmly and coldly. Robb had never seen his sweet sister like that ever.

 

Later he’d encountered Bran, frowning up at the Broken Tower. Laughingly Robb had warned against climbing it, or at least against their mother catching him. Bran had turned an unusually serious face to him and said they should fix the tower. Before Robb could respond properly, Bran then said ‘I think I prefer to walk’. Before wandering off.

 

In the training yard Theon had gotten in a hit and suddenly looked at him with something he could only describe as dread. ‘Robb, I am _so_ sorry.’ Theon apologised with such emotion it froze Robb’s muscles and ignited something furious in him. Jory had shouted something at them about real battles and not being sensitive flowers, but the anguish in Theon’s face had drowned out the words. He had started to say it was okay, no harm done, but Robb hadn’t been able to form the words. In the end he’d had to settle for ‘it was just a tap’, while something dark and dreadful and full of hate and hurt roiled in his stomach. Both he and Theon fled after that, leaving Jory shouting at them.

 

His whole day had been like that. Jon rubbing his chest with a pained expression. He was pretty sure he heard Rickon speak in another language. Arya, who had turned down her dinner of meat pie. Theon and Sansa who couldn’t stopped looking at each other with desperate, frightened looks. He’s seen Arya try and do some moves with a practise sword, which was not so unusual, but there was something about her stance and grip, even if the wooden sword was too big and heavy. The quick flash of anger that crossed Jon’s face when father spoke to him. Added to that, there had been a moment where he saw his mother’s throat slit as well and one in which he was suddenly overjoyed to be a father. It made no sense. His head hurt.

 

“What is happening?” He groaned into his pillow.

“Several people have fucked up several things.” A slightly accented voice spoke up. Robb froze for a moment before rolling over and looking in the direction of the voice. She was back. She was dressed, well, like someone in the poorhouse, he supposed. Shapeless breeches, tied with string and something threadbare that could be referred to as a shirt. She was pale and gaunt. Dark bruises littered her exposed skin and her hair was shorn almost completely off. She wandered over to his wardrobe, moving entirely too easily for the shape she seemed to be in.

“You’re back.” He stated, still trying to keep his voice down.

“Yes.” She confirmed, slightly mockingly. “You called on me.”

“No, I didn’t!” He urgently whispered back.

“Yes, you did.” She countered. Feeling somewhat childish and somewhat insane, Robb started to disagree.

“No. I di-“ But this time, instead of a flash, a good few minutes of memory somehow slotted themselves in his mind.

 

_The woman, now looking a lot healthier, wearing a hooded cloak, was standing next to Jon. They seemed to be arguing._

_“That makes no sense!” Jon growled at her. He seemed more confident than Robb recalled seeing him before, somehow taller and quite agitated._

_“It doesn’t make sense to you!” The woman made an annoyed gesture towards Jon. “Because you can’t see past your own limited perspective.”_

_“My perspective?” Jon seemed to gather some steam. “Your perspective is some kind of magic fairy tale that has no bearing on the current situation!” Robb looked between the two of them, he felt tired and exasperated. And love. He loved Jon. He loved that Jon was here._

_“Jon.” He heard himself say, soothingly. He saw his own hand clasp Jon’s shoulder. Jon turned to him with more fire in his expression than Rob had ever seen. He was going to say something, but before he could, he was back in his bedroom, looking at the young woman, who was looking critically down at herself._

“This is hardly my best look, you know.” She wrinkled her nose at him, but didn't say I told you so. Or looked at him with a ‘see?’ expression. He dropped himself back into his furs.

 

“I don’t understand what’s going on.” He wasn’t sure if he was telling himself, the woman, or the gods. She came over and sat on his bed, it didn’t dip.

“The barriers between realities in this particular branch of the multiverse have weakened due to an incredible and unusually high level of magical, scientific and divine meddling of the fates.” His ghost explained as if that made things easier to understand. He glared at her. He was glaring at ghosts, gods help him.

“Okay.” She seemed to think. “You, and possibly others, are experiencing memories of different lives lived.” She looked at him expectantly. He frowned, mulled her words over.

“If that is true, how can that be?”

“Meddling. Too many witches and seers and gods.” She made the word gods sound mocking and sarcastic. “unhappy with how things went. So they sent visions back in time, or people, or moved between realities to sort out the best paths. Now, even without meddling, the barriers are so weakened, that you’re catching memories from other lives.” This was too much. To insane to contemplate. Still, he couldn’t stop himself asking.

“Why?”

“Too much necromancy.” The woman shrugs and Robb falls into another memory.

 

_“Why are there so many zombies around here? What is wrong with you people?!” Robb’s ghost exclaims with a hint of hysteria in her voice. He knows it’s his ghost because of the accent, the odd cadence of her speech and her strange word choices. The Robb’s whose memory this is wonders who the hell she is, she’s not a Wildling. Robb wonders why they are apparently camping with Wildlings. He's distracted soon enough, as everyone, both Robbs included, are horrified by the blue-eyed corpses trying to rip them apart. Thankfully their wits settle soon enough and they fight. They fight hard. Robb stabs a corps through the heart, but it does nothing. A wight, something supplies, the stories are real, several voices say. From the corner of his eye he sees a wildling decapitate a wight which is trying to reach his ghost. It also does nothing and his ghost falls backwards scrambling._

_“Oh come on!” She sounds appalled and offended, even through her fear. A skeletal hand grabs his arm and he can feel the cold through his coat. He hacks the hand off and kicks the wight away. Then he sees Jon wave a torch at the wight, which catches fire surprisingly well. It burns to ashes._

 

Robb comes back to himself. His ghost has changed clothes, she is now wearing the same as she was in his memory. A ridiculously multicolored blanket belted around her, a green and grey scarf, wool over leather breeches, snow boots. He face is red with wind burn, but it’s full and unblemished.

“Why do you look different all the time?” Robb asks. It’s an easier question than the ones that mill around in his mind about the past/future/alternate lives problem he’s now faced with.

“I look how you remember me. You’re the one who’s pulling me here.” She explains. She seems to study him closely, frowning. 

“I don’t understand.” Robb feels he keeps saying that, but it’s true. He doesn’t understand anything about what’s happening.

“Me either.” The ghost says. “We barely knew each other, you died soon after that fight. I was Jon’s friend for years after.”

 

 


	2. Arya's Smith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya meets a boy. She meets many boys in many lives, but this one is special.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a few small season 8 spoilers here. A few timeline amendments?

Arya meets a boy. She meets many boys in many lives, but this one is special. He big and grumpy and he murmurs his courtesies in the direction of her father’s stomach. Which is about eye-height to Arya. Their eyes meet, and Arya knows she’s seen them before. Her father breaks the moment by grabbing the boy by the chin, gently enough, and studying his face. Father must see something, as he suddenly ushers her out of the forge, not even letting her look at the weapons like he promised. Arya will meet the boy again.

 

Arya meets a boy. She’s dirty and her hair is shorn and she’s pretending to be a boy herself, off to the Night’s Watch. This happens a hundred, a thousand times. He’s big and grumpy and in most of these lives, he defends her from bullies, just because. In the lives he doesn’t defend her the first time around, he does so the second or the third. Because that’s who he is. They become friends. They always become friends. Even in that one life where they both become killers and love no one but each other.

 

There are a few lives where they don’t meet. He doesn’t live. She doesn’t live. One life where they keep missing each other. By minutes, by seconds, by a hair’s breadth, a dropped tray and a door just closing. That life’s a funny one. Everyone lives, most everyone lives a longer, happier life. But they all die in the end. Arya only meets the boy when she’s long dead and his eyes are the wrong kind of blue.

 

There’s a life where she dies at Harrenhal. Not due to torture or because she gets herself killed, but because she’s cold and wet and there’s little food and dirty water. She dies burning up and shivering and Gendry holds her. He’s been trying to give her his food, his warmth, but it does no good and she dies anyway. Gendry eventually gets out of the cells and smiths.

(There’s not a lot of leeway there. It’s what he does, every time. He makes weapons and armour, mostly. But there is a life where he makes pots and nails and ploughs. He lives in a smallish forge, part of a smaller House in the Vale. He has a wife that hunts game and keeps hounds, because this Lord doesn’t like hunting. She never manages to get the ‘m’lord’ right, but no one really notices. This is not that life).

In this life Gendry smiths weapons that are well crafted and solid, but not great. At some point there’s dragons and dead men walking and war, and for a moment Gendry considers joining her brother. The one she loved best. But he doesn’t. He lives a long life, but the steel never sings again. He would say it howls, but wolves without pack don’t howl. The steel only cries.

 

There is, off course, a life where he does join Jon, and they both agree that Arya dying of an illness was less than what she deserved. Gendry just tells Jon of his sister's passing, nothing about before. He makes it seem like he just met her in Harrenhal and it’s easier that way.

 

There is a life where the Goldcloaks get him, because Arya tells the wrong lie (they don’t believe her). There is a life where the Goldcloaks get him, because she’s distracted by pain. There’s a life where the Goldcloaks get him because he’s quicker than her. There are a bunch of lives where the Goldcloaks get him and it breaks something in her she never gets back. She tends to escape Harrenhal faster. She tends to expand her list further and easier. She never really trusts anyone again.

 

There are good lives though. An entire cloud of realities where they do not wait until the Goldcloaks come back and they wander into the forests, sometimes the two of them, sometimes with a friend or two. Some lives they meet Nymeria and they make a different sort of pack. There is a life where Arya ends up an assassin and Gendry a smith (he really is almost always a smith). They stay in small villages, towns, some places halfway to being cities and Estates. Gendry works and learns and teaches his craft wherever they land. And Arya kills rapers and murderers and abusers. They accept food and lodging and small payments for the best crafted weapons in Westeros and the timely demises of evil with human faces. Gendry doesn’t think of Arya as a killer. He thinks of her as justice. It’s a good life.

 

Very few lives are peaceful, however. In most lives Arya is a killer. She meets Death, or at least a good few of his faces. He relationship with Death varies. Her time spent in the House of Black and White tips the veil, but it’s not the whole Death, she learns. Still Death walks beside Arya Stark most of her realities. He shies a bit away when she’s no one, and in some lives they dance together inseparably the entire time. Arya fights the dead, and death and Death. She wins a surprising amount of times. She fights Death for those she loves and she wins at least once, which is more than just about anyone can claim. And in most lives, she joins a war. A war for the living. Or a war against Cersei Lannister. She fights, because she can’t not. But she fights better when she wields a weapon made by a boy who is a smith. And she fights longer when he’s with her.

 

There are a few lives that are so horrible, no one knows where they went off course, but everyone, on some level, knows it did. There is a life where Arya never meets a boy. But she meets a man. A man who sees the shadow of Death flit around her and offers her the knowledge of his many faces. It feels right. She takes him up on his offer and she becomes the most dedicated acolyte of Death. It’s not until the dead are dead once more and someone approaches a man to put in bid for the Iron Throne, that things come tumbling down. It’s not until she looks into the face of a now murdered smith, being worn by someone she (Arya. Arya Stark. Arya Stark of Winterfell) considers her friend and lover, that it all comes tumbling down. She’s alone. Not even Death stayed by her side. And wolves are not meant to be alone.

 

It’s not fair to say Arya never loved someone else. It’s not true. The man she meets as Jaqen H’Gar is her lover and loved by her, in a number of lives. As is sellsword she meets a handful of lives in Braavos. Some lives, she does end up married to a highborn lord and Edric Dayne loves her for who she is, and she loves him for who he is, even if there’s very little fight in him at all. But in many, it’s Gendry. He’s her first by choice, if he’s around. She picks him specifically, because she wants to know what it’s like, she tells him. He protests to varying degrees, but he always shows her what it’s like. And it’s good. Even in the lives where it’s not because they’re cold and hungry and entirely too young and fumble through the whole thing bashing teeth and noses and trapping limbs and not ever quite getting a rhythm going.

She loses her virginity in forges, a lot. In forests, in bedrolls, in haybarns and inn’s questionable boarding rooms. She never regrets Gendry. Gendry never regrets her. He worries a lot, about her father, her brothers, highborns and his own status alike. Though he does get whipped a few lives by someone overly concerned with propriety. He can’t say no to her. He doesn’t want to, and in the end, he always gives in when she insists they can fight for each other and win. It tends to work out in the end.

 

But in this life, this one, which shows her flashes and memories of all the other ones; Arya meets a boy in a forge. He mumbles m’lady at her and part of her wants to tell him not to call her that. Another part seems to burst at the seams with joy. She meets him again with Yoren and he knows her straight away. They get caught by Goldcloaks, they escape Harrenhal. But this time, she saves him from the Red Woman, with some help from Davos and they acquire Shireen to their pack as well.

She still runs into the Hound and he takes her, and Shireen. Gendry follows them doggedly, stupid, stubborn bull that he is. The Hound is equally bewildered and aggravated, but he can’t chase off Gendry without losing at least one of his hostages and he doesn’t seem to want to risk actually fighting Gendry and getting stabbed in the back by Arya, or possibly Shireen.

They go to Braavos and Gendry learns how to work Valyrian steel and Arya learns more efficient ways to kill, and remain unseen, and to know Death. Shireen grows and blooms and turns out to be excellent at haggling and wheeling and dealing.

They return because they hear about dragons and a King in the North, thank you Shireen. The night before they are to meet Jon Arya is nervous, a hundred thousand reunions, most good, some bad, run through her mind as well as hundreds of ways in which they tell her Jon is gone. She prods Gendry into taking her maidenhead. Partially to settle her nerves, partially to present anyone who will look to separate them with a ship sailed. Mostly because she’s been wanting to for a while now. There have been kisses and they’ve shared rooms and beds and embraces forever now.

They fight. They fight and they live and Arya sees another face of Death. Then there is another war and Gendry smiths and Arya sneaks and they fight and they live and when the dust settles, Arya tells him to marry her.

 

“Someone’s bound to say something soon. They can’t all be this dense. Sansa is not this dense.” Arya explains. Gendry is shirtless in the forge, just wearing the leather apron protecting against sparks. The heat is oppressive, as it is in most forges, but Arya suspects he does it at least in part for her. No one has mentioned their relationship. At all. And certainly, they’ve all been busy, but even wars, magic and death don’t keep people down for long and Arya expects someone to mention her marriageability soon.

“As m’lady wishes.” Gendry readily agrees, small smirk on his face. He’s working on something small and delicate, and he briefly flicks a smile over at her.

“Don’t cal- Actually, yes?” Arya doesn’t know why she’s surprised. She marries him a lot. But she also doesn’t marry him, a lot. “Just like that?”

“Just like that.” Gendry confirms, looking intently at she’s not sure what it’s supposed to become.

“Well, you’ve been plain stupid about it before.” Arya says. They never really mention the outside memories, but she’s sure they both have them. Gendry flinches.

“Arya..” She loves him saying her name, there’s nothing like it. He has a stubborn, slightly pouting look on his face, as he takes the thing and puts it back in the coals to re-heat. “All I ever wanted was the forge.” He makes a sweeping gesture she know means more than just this physical forge, but more the work, the skill, the place to belong. “and you.”

His face crumples into a deeper frown, grumpy, stupid, stubborn, bull. “And maybe I thought I couldn’t have you. But I’ve never not wanted you. Never.” He finishes. He seems almost embarrassed. Arya feel that bright, shiny joy she felt the first time she met him. But she’s spent year learning how to control her face, so she does.

“Alright then.” She confirms. “We’ll get married as soon as possible.” She pauses, she actually does want her remaining family there. Possibly a cake. She hasn’t had cake in a long while. “In three days?”

“As you say.” Gendry gives her a small smile before pulling what to Arya still looks like a lump of mental from the coals. She hops off the counter.

“I’ll let my family know.” She tells him, and she only hates the butterflies in her stomach a little bit.

“Give it a few hours, I’d like to finish this.” Gendry motions at the lump of metal.

“Off course.” Arya is almost out the door before she freezes. “They’re probably going to shove some kind of lordship or castle on us.” She realises. Gendry hits his project with a resounding clang and curses while frowning at it. She’s never seen him miss before.

“Fuck.” He repeats, though this time it’s more for the lordship than the ruined metal.

“What if we have to take Storm’s End?” Arya asks, not necessarily of Gendry.

“Shireen can take it.” Gendry says. “Shireen _will_ take it.” He urges. Then pauses. “Or make her a regent for when we travel, worse comes to worst.” He seems to tell himself more than her.

“What if we have to take Riverrun?” Arya’s eyes widen in horror. “Or the Twins?” Gendry meets her eyes, he can see her thinking wildly.

“Does it have a forge?” Gendry asks, there is something in his stomach that was also there when he was on top of the Wall. He could fall. But he’s not going to.

“Probably.” Arya seems to search her mind for confirmation. “If not, we can build one.” She offers.

“Well then,” The feeling in his stomach is still there, but it’s alright. “I think we’ll live.”

Arya grants him smile and sudden kiss.

“Yeah. We’ll live.”

 

 

 


	3. What Jaime wants

Jaime may be the stupidest Lannister,but he knew Aurah Redwood when he saw her. It was an uncomfortable confirmation that the memories of a different life were real. He’d experienced some and had tentatively tried to discuss it with Tyrion. Tyrion had vaguely admitted to experiencing something similar, but seemed rather distracted. And after, to be avoiding Jaime. Then Robb Stark had pretty much bumped into him unexpectedly, stared at him in horror, said; “Oh gods. There’s still Wildfire under King’s Landing isn’t there?” and then fled. And then he saw Aurah. So, he may not be the thinker of the family, but he wasn’t dense enough to ignore that much proof.

 

From what he gathered, some people; Tyrion, himself, and certainly Robb Stark, seemed to recall bits and pieces of different lives lived. Others, like Cersei and his father, definitely did not. It was hard to figure out if people less close to him experienced the same. He’d never paid much more than superficial attention to them. Tyrion vaguely spoke of hundreds of different paths, but Jaime only saw two.

In one life he’d loved and loved and loved and with every act of love, he’d lost a piece of his soul and his honour. Until he loved Brienne, after which making the right choice became an act of love, in honour of Brienne. He’d died in that life, feeling as if he’d somewhat redeemed himself. He died some sort of alright. He was fuzzy on the details, not sure of whether it was what remained of The Mountain at the behest of his sister, the North or the dead, but he’d died, halfway there. He never got to tell Brienne.

In the other life, after months of imprisonment, sitting in his own filth, a monstrous wolf breathing down his neck from time to time, alternating between terror and worry and apathy, Jon Snow appeared in the King in the North’s camp, with Aurah in tow. She’d been the one that walked past his cage, turned on the balls of her feet a few steps past, crouched and looked straight into his soul. He’s again fuzzy on the details, but over the years Aurah stabs him with cold hard truths and questions no one has dared ask before, or, Jaime thinks, ever will.

In both lives he becomes a better man than he is today, though not necessarily by his own efforts. It’s rather like being dragged after a horse.

 

He wishes he knew what to do, how to act, but he can’t decide. He’s not like his father. Or Tyrion. Every time he thinks of something, a hundred unintended, disastrous results present themselves. He’s had less than two weeks of knowing and he doesn’t have the head for politics, nor does he truly care. Who sits on the throne, who rules what, which person lives or dies.. It hardly matters, nothing's fair and they all die in the end anyway. 

Initially he decides to.. just try harder. Love Cersei better. Maybe he can convince her of the troubles to come and to act accordingly. Maybe he can love her enough to stave off the madness. But his body betrays him. Her smiles, her touches.. they memories of Wildfire and madness and dead children freeze his blood and sour his stomach. He can’t. Small memories of offhanded cruelty, careless dishonour, mean-spiritedness. He can’t avoid them any longer. Now that he’s seen the worst of his twin, he can’t unsee it. And he keeps seeing more. He wonders how long before she notices his distance.

So, who does he protect? Tyrion, certainly. His little brother, who in each life stands between him and the Dragon Queen coming. And his children. That’s enough. That’s his family, and it will have to be enough. As it is, he can’t think of a way to save them already, never mind any bigger plots involving more people. All he can think of is taking Tommen and Myrcella as far away as possible. Essos probably. He thinks of Joffrey, but like with Cersei, he can’t unsee. So that’s his only plan. Take two of his children and run. It’s a bad plan. It’s not a plan at all. Cersei will never let them go. Robert will never let them go. The children barely know him, why would they just go with him. He needs to speak to Tyrion. If anyone can help him with a plan, it’s his bother. But Tyrion has been avoiding him.

 

Avoiding the court, Jaime flees into the Godswood. He’s no further along with any plans, and has a persistent headache plaguing him. This time its him who nearly runs into Robb Stark. The boy looks uncomfortable and somewhat sick. He looks like a boy on the eve of his first battle. It’s a little unsettling. He remembers the wolf and the armour and the battles won. He remembers Robb Stark as larger than life, a King of old. Not this green boy.

“Look, Kingslayer.” He reluctantly starts. “I’ve been asked to give you a message.” He shoots an uneasy and unhappy look at Lady Redwood, who’s lingering half behind a blackberry bush, wearing what seems like excessive cold weather clothing. Jaime is affronted.

“Just tell me yourself, Lady Redwood.” Jaime steels himself. the message is probably something unpleasant, it’s her way. “I can see you just fine.”

“Jaime!” Aurah exclaims excitedly, with a little jump. At the same time Robb Stark looks between the two of them with rapid astonishment.

“Your name is Lady Redwood?” He asks, astounded, before twisting back to Jaime. “You can see her.”

“You can see me!” Aurah happily speaks over Stark.

“Yes I can see you, why wouldn’t I- Oh.” Jaime starts and stops when she walks through the bush, and the image of her flickers to what she looked like in King’s Landing. He recalls this happening before. She could appear to people, speak to them while being far away. He’d once asked her if she was a God, answering a prayer and she’s just laughed. “Where are you?”

“In your head.” Robb Stark grouches from behind him. It seems he’s been told the same more than once.

“Well, yes,” Jaime agrees, “But where’s the rest of you?”

“There’s a rest?” Stark questions, as if someone just told him pigs are flying. At the same time Aurah cheerily informs him.

“A cell somewhere.”

“Where?” both he and Stark ask simultaneously, before frowning at each other.

“Haven’t the foggiest. It’s dark and damp and there’s no view. They don’t speak to me at all.” She doesn’t seem bothered overly much. “Look, it doesn’t matter. I usually don’t-“

He and Stark speak at the same time again.

“Yes it does!”

“It matters to me.”

Aurah gives them a look.

“You’re actually real.” Stark breathes and Jaime is fair certain the look Aurah gives him would shrivel better men.

“Yes! I am real. I am a person. I appear in your head when you call upon me to speak. I knew you.” She gestures at Robb. “briefly, and Jaime a lot longer in different life where I was tasked with stopping a necromancer. I failed. Everyone failed. Everyone died. Apparently everyone dies every fucking time. So, highly unusually, I’ve got a second chance. You lot have, like, your millionth chance. Can we please not waste it talking about me!” The speech has the sound of a long standing argument, mostly directed at Stark. The boy sticks out his chin.

“I will find you and get you out of that cell.” He promises, heartfelt and honest. Considering up until just now he apparently was aware she had a body, it's touching. And foolish, Jaime decides. 

“Goddammit Robb!” Aurah exclaims and throws up her hands before disappearing. She doesn’t come back. After several minutes of pregnant silence Jaime asks what the message was. Stark looks stricken.

“I don’t know. She was going to tell me when you were here.”

 

Several hours later, after dinner, Jaime is alone in his rooms, with the door barred, when he rather tentatively thinks at her. _Aurah?_   She appears immediately.

“Jaime! I’m so happy to see you.” She gives him a wide smile. “I’m sorry we didn’t get around to this part. Robb can be so frustrating.” Memories from his other life jostle him. They were friends he thinks. He hated her on several occasions, but they were friends.

“I apologise, I don’t remember much.” Jaime starts. “We were friends, yes?” Were they lovers? No. Were they? No. She’s not his.. type. He doesn’t have a type. He’s only loved two women in all his life. Or all three of them

“I’d certainly say so.” Aurah confirms. “I don’t think you have many friends. You’re a bit of an asshole with a habit of mocking and insulting people.”

“Thank you.” Jaime says, the slight feels familiar. Careless honesty. He doesn’t mind it as much as he expected.

“Sure.” She smiles. “What do you remember?” There is a pause and the headache returns tenfold. The amusement of seeing her disappears instantly.

“Failing. Mourning. Regret.” He tells her. It more than that, bigger and darker, but he does not have the words.

“Hmm, me too.” She sits herself on a chest.

“I fucked up.” He admits. To her, to himself. Aurah gives him a wry smirk.

“I didn’t. And yet we’re still here.” That was not an answer he wanted to hear.  

“What do I do?” He ask. He expects her to tell him. He may not remember details, but he knows she’s got opinions. A lot of them. Many that people don’t necessarily want to hear. But he will hear her. He will hear her and pull up his breeches and he will not fail again.

“Jaime..” Aurah trails. “I can’t tell you that. I don’t know what went wrong. I’m not sure what to do myself.” She seems to take a breath. “What the hell do I do? I’m stuck in a cell, somewhere, back at the beginning of a world about to be torn apart by necromancers. And I can do necromancers and zombies! That’s fine. It’s what I do. It’s the politics and the greed and stupid people, doing shitty things, for stupid, selfish reasons that I don’t know how to navigate!” Jaime is taken aback. “And haunting two people going through identity crises, seems to be the extent of my capabilities at the moment.” She whirls to her feet, faces him.

“Why Robb Stark?” Jaime hopes she doesn’t expect an answer, because he’s got nothing. “I knew him for like 3 hours total before he went and got himself killed. We barely spoke ten sentences to each other.” She’s pacing, it’s only short bits, presumably there is no more space in the cell she’s in. She stops, breathes.

“Okay. Okay. I’m fine. Apologies.” She sits back down. “We’ll just have to take this step by step. I’ll help you in any way I can, which, granted, is only in one way, which is me giving opinions.”

“Well, thankfully you have plenty.” Jaime smiles.

“Yeah." She gins. "Well. Okay.” Aurah leans in. “First thing; what do you want?”

“Er, excuse me?”

“What do you want?” She repeats herself. “What do you want to achieve this time around? What is the goal?” That's a bit too easy, isn't it?  Jaime thinks, but tells her anyway.

“My children.” He admits. Does she know? He thinks she probably does, but what if she doesn’t? “I want them to live. And be happy.” Aurah nods in agreement. “And Tyrion. Alive. Happy too.” That’s it, isn’t it? That’s insurmountable enough. But perhaps. He’s talking to someone he’s not entirely sure is not a God.

“If I have to die, I want to die with honour.” He surprises himself. No longer in the arms of the woman he loves.

“You did, at least in my life.” Aurah tells him. Did he? He doesn’t quite recall. “But sure, yes.”

“I want to be better. I want to be exonerated.” That surprises him even more. He still very much does not want to talk about Aerys still. But he’s done being the Kingslayer. Aurah thinks this over, raises and eyebrow, nods to herself.

“Brienne.” Jaime blurts out. He can’t stop himself now. “I want Brienne. If she’ll have me.” The barely knew each other in his second life, but she was so present in his first, he wants her in this one.

“I want to get old.” Jaime thinks back. “I don’t want to die with honour, I want to die old and grey and in bed.” A bigger smile from Aurah. “If I have to die in battle, let it be with honour, but if I don’t, I want to live.”

“I want the Starks in Winterfell.” He’s moving further away from the plausible now, more ephemeral wishes, not exactly based in reality. “Because fuck it, they deserve it.”

“I want to get Bronn his bloody castle. I want you as my friend. I want the Night King to be killed soon and permanently. I want Robert to live until Daenerys fries him with her dragons and the Kingdoms to change hands without war. I want The Mountain to keel over dead. I want Cersei to find peace. I want everyone to get what they deserve.” He finishes, he feels empty in a light sort of way. Tired. Aurah sits next to him and makes as if to hold his hand. It’s impossible, as she’s immaterial, but he appreciates the gesture.

“Oh. And I want to keep all my limbs.” Aurah laughs, slightly watery.

“Alright. Seems pretty fair. Not easy, but..” There’s a pause.

“Let’s get to work.” Aurah gets up. “See you soon.”

 

 


	4. This time (Sansa)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This time around, Sansa does push Joffrey off the battlements.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure the timeline is a mess, but hey-ho!  
> No real romance yet. minor pairing mentioned, but nothing particularly explicit.

This time around, Sansa does push Joffrey off the battlements. She may be a slow learner, but she has learned. She has learned a thousand things in a thousand ways. Many choices and many paths live inside her mind now, and all of them are overridden when he’s taunting her. _With her father’s head._ She knows not to let the Hound see, this time. There is all the pain and guilt and pain and misery of her thirteen year old body, and then there is the vengeance of the wolf, the cold ice of the north, pulled from a different life. From all the different lives, because she does learn. Every time. And she shoves.

He falls and screams, and lands with a thud that may be the most satisfying sound of Sansa’s life. She doesn’t look at the Hound, can’t look at him. She pulls on many instances of grief and pain and panic and it’s easy enough to lose herself in hysteria. She grieves for her mother and Robb and her father and Arya, she screams out her pain for Theon and Bran and all the people she’s lost again and again. She just has to make her lips form Joffrey’s name here and there, but all in all, it seems to be convincing enough.

When the screaming stops, hers and later Cersei’s, she’s in front of the court and the small council and they ask her what happened. It’s a bit harder to be thirteen year old, frightened Sansa as well as Queen Sansa of the North, but the pulls it off. She spins a story of how Joffrey was showing off, without using the words showing off. How he jumped on the battlements to swagger with glee, without using the words swaggering, or glee. How he lost his footing and fell. It’s a blatant lie, a ridiculous lie, and at the very least Sandor Clegane knows it. She doesn’t care. If she dies here, she dies doing something she never got to do before.

“Aye.” The Hound confirms her story though. _A hound will die for you, but never lie to you._ Except he’s lying now. “I tried to get him to come down.” The Hound rumbles. “But..” Everyone can finish that sentence, Joffrey was no good at taking orders, or advice, or suggestions. Something inside Sansa expanded and was threatening to burst, she might actually get away with this. Stranger still, Ser Jaime speaks. He’s here, in King’s Landing, this time, though in many a life he’s imprisoned by Robb at this stage.

“Indeed.” Jaime says, a tone in his voice and a look on his face that Sansa cannot accurately place. It’s not grief, it’s not hatred, it’s not determination or relief. Maybe it’s all of that. “I was down below and I saw.” He claims. He really wasn’t down below, Sansa knows for certain, but no one contradicts him. And so, she actually gets away with it.

 

Later she learns The Hound is whipped, tortured and imprisoned in the Black Cells, for failing his duty. She feels more guilty over that, than she ever will over Joffrey. She doesn’t know if there are plans for his execution, but, however rude and mean and harsh he treats her in all her lives, he’s never the worst. He’s kind in his own way, and, in this life. The one she’s actually living, he saved her life. He lied for her.

Sansa has learned a lot, from Cersei and Littlefinger and many more, but in this case she uses some knowledge that she learned from Arya and servant who tries to help her when she’s Lady Bolton. She’s tall and she knows her face is beautiful, but the rough and shapeless dress she wears, the headscarf and the soot on her face make her insignificant. No one stops her. It’s early, pre-dawn and if people think of her at all, they think of her as an ash girl. She makes her way down to the cells and it’s easy. It’s so easy it makes all the times she was trapped here hard to swallow. She finds the Hound, opens his cell (There is a life where she never stops being Alayne Stone and ironically inherits the Vale. That Alayne learns a lot about lock picking). He grunts at her.

“Here.” She approaches him with the small flask. “It’s poison.” She tells him. He stares at her like he’s not sure she’s even here.

“You here to kill me?” He growls, she thinks he seems upset and that’s a good thing. “This is your thanks.” Yes, Sansa thinks, be angry. Become your own man. She thinks he does, more often than not, but she rarely gets to appreciate it.

“It won’t kill you.” She explains. “It’s finicky, but it should make you appear dead for a good three hours. You’ll still be aware, but you won’t be able to move a muscle. They won’t feel your pulse. You just need to hold your breath when they come.” It’s why she chose pre-dawn. Hopefully he’ll be discovered and moved before it wears off. The Hound stares at her some more. He seems astounded. “You have to drink it now, so I can take away the bottle.” She urges. Sandor Clegane mulls things over and then decides.

“Give it here.” He grunts. She gladly hands over the flask and watches him swallow. The poison seems not to have any affect at all for a while and she can just see the Hound start to say something, when he blinks. He doesn’t collapse so much as sag. Losing all muscle control. He melts into a massive puddle of a man. He looks dead, she thinks. Sansa then sees the stain spread over the crotch of his breeches as he loses control over his bladder. Good, she thinks. Dead men soil themselves.

She returns to her rooms without issue, and she doesn’t hear anything about the Hound at all. She can only pray the plan worked and he’s free somewhere.

 

After her successful trip to the dungeons, she plays with the idea of trying to escape King’s Landing. She thinks maybe she should have offered to go with the Hound. She has before, but a disappointing amount of times that resulted in re-capture or death. She’s not sure how far she’ll make it on her own. The odds, based on what she remembers, are not good.

The Lannisters do not let her go, off course not. But this time, the Tyrell’s plan of marrying her to Willas goes through. Sansa’s hardly overjoyed, but she’s been married to him before, and, well, he’s hardly the worst of her husbands. And she’s had, so. Many. Husbands. When she’s locked in her room and has nothing to do, she goes over the memories. Out of all her siblings, she seems to be the one that marries the most and the most varied.

Robb seems torn between what he wants and what is expected of him every time. This time, in this life, she's heard he's married Roslin Frey, doing his duty. He’s betrayed, still, on his wedding night with Roslin, by the Freys. As far as Sansa can tell, it’s nigh impossible to avoid. It happens every time. Certainly, in this life Robb has a bastard son and witch mistress, an offense to Roslin. But really, how many lords have mistresses and bastards? All together, she concludes, Robb could have been perfect in every way and the Boltons and the Freys would still betray him. They seems to have in every life. 

Arya has a marked preference for the Baratheon smith. She flaunts propriety and convention and lives as his mistress half the time, but Gendry looks at Arya in a way Sansa is sure no one has ever looked at her. And even when it’s Ned Dayne, or the assassin, or someone else, they all seem to like her sister. Respect her. There is a fairly uninteresting life, Sansa recalls, where Arya is pushed into an arranged marriage with a Frey, but that Frey just.. disappears rather quickly. It’s all on Arya’s terms.  In dark times Sansa is so jealous it makes her sick.

Bran rarely marries. He crippled often and seems to use it, as well as the Three Eyed Raven, as an excuse. Or maybe it’s just a reason, Sansa scolds herself. He marries Meera Reed, sometimes, when Jojen lives and she can forgive him. He marries Shireen Baratheon some times, when she's recued from the flames, and sometimes Lyanna Mormont. There’s hardly ever any children. And, Sansa is sure, that one daughter of Lyanna’s, is definitely not Bran’s. She doesn’t realise it for a rather embarrassing long time. It’s not until Loras Tyrell marries the pieces come together. Bran marries Meera Reed when Jojen lives. There are no children.

Rickon is so young, by the time he’s old enough, there’s war and dead men walking and he dies before he ever gets a chance at marriage. At his oldest he dies at fifteen, she thinks. It’s around the age fathers and old brother take boys to see their first whores (Sansa will never look away from the unpleasant things in life again). Or when boys find chambermaids and servant girls for meaningless fun. Sansa doesn’t recall him ever being in love and it hurts. It hurts more than her own lack of love.

And Jon. Jon is less varied in his affections than even Arya. There’s Ygritte, who appears in Jon’s life more than he ever tells her, but it tends to be a doomed love. She dies or Jon chooses duty. A few times there is small, red-faced and orange haired little girl that screams louder than Sansa thought possible. She rarely meets Ygritte and has no opinion on her, but she loves Yseult. And then there is Daenerys. She’s his aunt and she’s coming for the Seven Kingdoms and Jon loves her. He truly does. And Sansa wants him to be happy. He deserves to be happy. But, especially when she learns about Aegon Targaryan, it seems so neat. Such a perfect solution in such an imperfect world. Experience has made Sansa suspicious.

 

In any case. She married Willas Tyrell. She’s married him before and they had a solid, contented marriage. One of her best one, truth be told, if a bit short. Every time she marries Willas, she burns with him. They make it through the wedding night. It’s awkward and uncomfortable, as they both know to do their duty, but neither particularly wants to.Is this truly the best she can hope for? When first these extra memories settled inside her, Sansa made a descision. What Sansa wants out of this life, this life where she has so much extra knowledge and is quite a bit ahead of the game, is pleasure in her marriage bed. Off course the defeat of the night King and her family come first. But for herself, she wants a husband she loves, and to find pleasure in him.

In some other life, when they’re sharing a bed and still shivering, waiting for the dead to come to their doorstep, she asks Arya if it’s true that it's good. Arya stills unnaturally and Sansa thinks she might just leave. Or say something rude. Or pretend she doesn’t know what Sansa is asking. But then, _yes_ , Arya whispers. _It’s better than you can imagine._ Sansa doesn’t quite believe her, but lifetimes of watching women she knows and cares about, she knows there must be something better than awkward, uncomfortable embarrassment, which is the best she’s ever found in her marriage beds.

 

After Sansa marries Willas and Loras marries Cersei and Margaery marries Tommen (reaching, Olenna. You’re overreaching, Sansa thinks), a trip to Highgarden is proposed. Ser Jaime seems to be one of the major proponents and Sansa can’t help but wonder who’s guiding his actions. Tyrion, probably, because Jaime does not have the wits to arrange this on his own merit. Still, Highgarden is not King’s Landing and her chances of being blown up decrease monumentally. And however she gets out of King's Landing, Sansa is not ever going back. She wonders how Jaime convinces his sister and lover to let Tommen as well as Myrcella accompany them without their mother, but she doesn’t really care. The not-really Baratheon prince and princess are mostly just casualties. The die and die and die. Sacrifices to the altar of power and greed and lust. When they live, they disappear from history. Bastards, not worth the mention. Still, Sansa knows something is coming, she just can’t figure out what.

Then there is an ambush. There is shouting and fighting and what Sansa thinks in her limited experience, as disproportionate amount of confusion. The lose a lot of people in the struggle, and she does mean lose. Sansa doesn’t see a single death, and yet the numbers of their droop dwindle to barely anything. It ends up being the wheelhouse containing herself, Margaery, Tommen and Myrcella. Outside is Ser Jaime and a few guards. The guards that remain seem vaguely familiar to Sansa. Not major players, but she’s encountered them in other lives.

It’s not until a day or two later Sansa realises, they’re going North. She wonders if the other notice, but doubts it. A road is a road and they're all occupied with their own thoughts and feeling. Watching Margaery and Tommen is, well, nauseating. They travel for weeks and.. Ser Jaime is rather skilfully dodging questions and evading answers. It’s like someone trained him in deceit recently.

It’s not until they approach a castle, surrounded by encampment that Sansa’s heart starts hammering in her chest. She scans the banners and the flags and..

“This is Riverrun.” She breathes. The other in the wheelhouse look at her strangely, but Jaime, having ridden up confirms it.

“Yes. Welcome home Lady Stark.”

 

There is more confusion and questions and shouting and tears , but Sansa is rather numb to it all. One of the guards accompanies her through the encampment, shies a bit away as she embraces Grey Wind, and finally leaves her in the company of her brother. Robb. Robb who is broader and taller than she’s ever seen him. He looks tired and weary, but also slightly besotted with the babe in his arms and happy to see her.

“Sansa.” He greets her and musters a genuine smile.

“Your Grace.” She says, still not having all her wits about her, but damn her if she forgets her courtesies.

“Don’t.” Robb says. “Here, meet your nephew.” He proudly hands the babe over to Sansa and she looks down on the child. He’s tiny and has no hair and he’s sleeping. His skin is rather darker than Robbs, but other than that, she can’t say if he looks like anyone or not. “Altair Stark.” He introduces them. Sansa feels a love bloom she’s rarely felt. Her nephew. Her family. She feels the tears on her cheeks.

“Stark?” she asks. Maybe her courtesies are a bit lacking. But really, everyone knows Robb’s son is a bastard.

“Off course.” Robb says as if he could be nothing else. “He’s my son.” Off course. Robb is a king and kings can legitimise bastards. Off course his son is a Stark. Still, she can’t help but think about what Roslin Frey must think.

“And!” Robb sounds excited as her leads her over to a cot, on which a small, redheaded toddler is sleeping. “Minisa Stark. Mini.” Two bastards. Good gods Robb. Sansa feels like kicking him in the shins. She doesn’t, because a tall woman walks in and lights up at seeing the children. She has dark hair and dark eyes and she kisses Robb briefly without shame.

“Your Grace.” Sansa greets her and for a moment Robbs looks, well, uncomfortable, the woman's face twitches before she looks away and checks on the toddler. 

“Sansa, this is Aurah Redwood.” Sansa’s heart skips a beat. It’s the mistress. The witch mistress. It seems to be a trend, Sansa thinks unkindly. Stannis and his red witch, and they say they have a witch at court in Dorne and now Robb. Sansa had heard the rumours, yes, but it seems she had not fully credited them. “Aurah, this is my sister Sansa.” The witch smiles bright and genuine.

"Its a pleasure to meet you." The witch's accent is very slight and Sansa can't read anything off her. The witch holds out her arms to take the babe. Sansa smiles back, but cannot vouch for how sincere it seems.  She hands Altair to the woman in a slight daze.

“Come.” Robb kisses the babe and the witch, before taking her arm. “I do believe we have much to discuss.”

“Off course.” She agrees. She wonders how longs she has to collect her thoughts.

 

Not long, it turns out. She learns her mother died at the Twins, and though she’s lost her mother time and again, it hurts. It stabs grief at her and she weeps. Freely, safe in her brother’s camp. They talk. She learns that Robb also knows more than just this life. They both discuss the many ways in which the Red Wedding happened and even though there is proof enough that it’s not so much Robb’s, as the Frey's choices that caused the event, Sansa still needs time to accept it all. Robb looks guilty and a tiny little part of her feels like he should.

She meets Queen Roslin after a few days and is both startled and has her heart going out to the woman. She is small and very pretty and delicate. And she looks, Sansa realises, afraid. A general kind of fear. Like someone is about to hit her any minute now. Which is probably what growing up at the Twins was like. Robb doesn’t like her, Sansa can tell. It’s understandable, as her family just slaughtered Robbs family and bannermen, but Sansa feel very sorry for poor Roslin. Her brother treats his wife with a wary kind of politeness, but interacts as little as possible with her. They don’t share rooms, it’s the witch that lives with Robb, and Sansa can only imagine what that must feel like for the Queen. Sansa is determined to make friends with Roslin. She deserves better. The poor girl had no choice in any of what happened and Sansa knows exactly what that is like.

 

They’re all at a council now. Ser Jaime is there, he apparently has turned his cloak in return for protection of his children. Which he’s admitted openly. Something else Sansa never thought would happen. Robb and his advisors, Theon, the Blackfish, as well as the Queen and the witch. The two women in Robb’s life don’t interact in any way, that Sansa can tell, but they’re both requested at the council. Barring one pained look in the Queen’s direction, the witch ignores her. Roslin stares at the ground.

“Men.” Robb starts. “Ladies.” He sweeps a look over the Mormonts, Sansa and the witch. “There is a plan for a plan, and we have work to do.”


End file.
